The bar sways, faces vanish in the haze
Of foolish smiles. Can’t stand canned conversation.
Can’t stand without a wall to lean against.
Can’t understand a single word you speak,
But incomprehension is not my style.
Tough it out from the bottom of my glass.
Stagger down High Street, avoiding black glass,
Wander where the world ends beyond that haze,
Beyond the shimmering sun, in the style
Of Monet. The art of conversation
Lost. In the mad, blurred worlds I strive to speak
Find a cause, someone’s war to rail against,
Confront issues. Am I for or against?
No help found in the fortune-teller’s glass,
No comfort in the subtle spells she speaks,
No solace in the incense burn, the haze
Of promises, a strange conversation
With a woman of some substance and style.
I can do dignity. I can do style.
I can swim both with the tide and against.
I can do stand up straight conversation.
I can play tunes on the edge of the glass.
I can make sense when the sober make haze.
I can bid the four winds be still and speak.
Hush! Be still! Listen to a wise man speak.
Learn all the rules of intercourse with style.
No obfuscation now - cut through the haze.
Stop resisting. No use kicking against
The siren song. Liquid caresses glass,
Lubricates thoughts, kick starts conversation.
Alcohol constructs sweet conversation,
In serpent tongues it bids me boldly speak
The fluid crystal language of the glass,
Confidence aligned with mocking style.
You and I alone, a whole world against
Our charge towards the comfort of the haze.
Limping conversation, shambolic style.
I dare not speak, for you may turn against
Me and my glass grow darker with this haze.
A draughty sestina. My partner in crime, Kath, berates me because my poems are "unnrestrained misery", so perhaps it's time to mock the self again?